With broken wings we fall
by Tricky'Nix
Summary: *Drabbles* What the characters have to say for themselves at the end of 'A Streetcar named Desire' by Tennessee Williams. Starts with Stella then Blanche. Enjoy.
1. Stella Suffering, Screaming Silently

What Stella has to say for herself after "a Streetcar named desire" ends. I submitted this for my A-level coursework and wanted to know what you guys thought! One from Blanche is coming soon.

Her white knuckles creak as she releases her death grip on the edge of the bath tub. Her hands are bony, skinny like her sister's, but she lacks the waif-like grace that Blanche possessed. Stella's shrunk down to the image of her sister, but all she is, is a poor imitation, an echo of the dainty beauty Blanche was, a walking corpse instead of a sculpted butterfly.

_(Poor, beautiful, desperate Blanche.)_

She disappears under the water, staring at the distorted ceiling, water muffling the Varsouvianna coming from the radio. Her eyes glaze over under the water, as she wonders what it would be like stay under the water forever, just sink down and down and never come back up. She knows she should sit up and get out, but she's so tired, she can't move. Wearily soul-sick from only ever thinking her thoughts, trading eloquence for silence, her only familiar bed fellows being suspicion and self pitying guilt.

Heaving her aching body out of the water, she relishes the burn of her lungs as they find oxygen after being suffocated so long; the pain of her betrayal and the strain of hiding her hurt find solace in a physical sensation.

She's standing in front of the mirror but the glass is too foggy to see her face, she can't see properly through the steam of the bathroom_. _Her hand is resting on the radio, the radio that Stanley broke, freeing his emotions with one act of violent rage.

_(Your internal conflict smacks you around more then Stanley ever has.)_

She lets go of the radio and sweeps the entire contents of the dresser onto the floor. There's a crash and the Varsouvianna stops abruptly, leaving behind a sticky silence. She looks down at the carnage, the mess that's now appeared.

Maybe she'll just sweep the whole thing into a cupboard or under a floorboard. Hide the evidence, _(of her hurt)_ send the fragments to a dark place along with hidden liquor bottles and frown lines that mustn't be exposed to the light.

_(What have you done?)_

Now she's lying on her bed calmly, the black room welcoming her dark thoughts. Her muscles are stiff, tense as she fights to lie still on the _(dirty) _sheets that make her skin crawl with unwanted whisperings.

Dirty sheets…. She forces the _(painfully graphic) _mental images out of her imagination.

_(Beautiful, bitter, broken Blanche). _

She turns her head and sees the perfume bottles, as empty as their owner's life.

"What you're talking about is desire Stella! Pure primal desire!"

Desire. Of course Blanche would pretend to see desire as a sordid thing. Desire was everything she wasn't allowed to be. _(and Envy, Stella, is all you ever were) _

Desire; Blanche's secret, tragic flaw. The desire to be desired destroyed her.

She had fallen victim of yet another one of Blanche's self righteous delusions. She and Stanley had been trapped in the melodramatic dreamings of Blanche's mind along with Shep Huntleigh and poor Mitch.

_(The innocent don't have justifications running around their heads Stella.)_

Blanch with her craving to be the superior sister, the richer sister, the prettier sister. Blanche the martyr _(the victim). _Blanche and her desire to be wanted by everyone when Stella, Stella, Stella, had been happy with just one man _(monster)._

(_say it Stella, Say what you really think, just this once)_

Blanche had corrupted her home and mind with her lies and deceit. An expert at manipulating the world to see her through rose coloured glasses.

But this is her lot in life. Blanche made her bed, Stella lies in it, and Stanley is just the collateral damage, oblivious to what's broken.

"Stella!"

She flinches.

The harsh shout of her husband interrupts her secret puppet show _(Blanche was holding the strings)_ but she makes no move to stir. She's locked in a fight she can't win. 

_(Stop running Stella, embrace the danger you're so 'Thrilled by', confront the truth you know exists. I dare you.) _

"Hey Stella." Stanley takes the cigarette she didn't know she was holding, seemingly oblivious to her thrill _(her cringe)_ as his _(dirty)_ fingers touched her skin. "Stella, the baby's been crying, cancha hear him?" He dumps a bundle in her arms which she barely glances at.

She stares absentmindedly at his _(dirty) _hands and passes his _(her) _baby back.

_(Say something Stella!)_

"Can you take him Stanley?" she says quietly. "I think I need a bath."

fin.

Hope you like.


	2. Blanche broken and brittle

She's...tired. She's weary and bored and straining from the effort of keeping an old facade in place.

It's showing. Her exhaustion is beginning to sell her out, who she really is beginning to slip through the cracks in her mask and who she knows she should be is beginning to look like a glorified motto that children believe in, in the absence of any real adult emotion.

Her flaw is desire. The desire to be wanted and admired, the desire to be flattered and envied, the desire to be desired. They all have them, Stanley's is his wrath, Stella's is her naivety, and her willingness to overlook uncomfortable topics.

She wanted to be good. She really did. She strived for the heavenly piety and the sense of self worth that came hand in hand with the quenching of temptation. All it got her was a short walk to asylum.

"the only way to banish temptation...is to yield to it..."

Really? Beacause it seemed to her that all it did was intensify the craving once you knew exactly what it was you were missing. When you could recall each feeling, each look, every syllable of flattery found in forbidden practises, it only made it harder to forget what it was you wanted.

Or maybe dear Oscar was saying that the disgust you should feel at yourself and the self loathing that should result in you weakness should be enough to conquer any withdrawal symptoms you may have. Actually, he probably just wanted an excuse for why he did whatever he wanted.

Blanche wasn't ashamed. She didn't feel guilty or weak or dirty. She felt liberated, and empowered and alive. In a world ruled by men where nothing was taboo to them, and women were nothing more then possessions or conveniences, fated to belong to one person when they couldn't even be sure that that person belonged to them.

Blanche had been jilted by one man before. And it was her left behind to pick up the pieces and take the blame for the weakness of his suicidal act. Women were only good for two things; one in the kitchen, one in the bedroom. Blanche du bois doesn't enter kitchens so that only left her one use.

And she liked it.

She liked the way her Sister's husband's eyes followed her around. She enjoyed seeing the way Stella looked just a little bit insecure when she wore her form fitted dresses and teased Stanley gently.

Most of all she loved the raw masculinity that her husband had never been gifted with, but Stanley seemed to have in abundance.

She secretly coveted the feeling of being thrown around and surrendering control. Maybe she had finally met her match with this arrogant, powerfully assertive male.

She soon found out that when its forced on you, it isn't like the fairy tales.

In fact it leaves you damaged and dirty, and curled in a ball on a bed in a hospital full of screaming mentals. Her insides felt used and bruised, her own filth disgusted her.

She hadn't even been worth him picking her up and covering her up afterwards.

Blanche Dubois wasn't worth anything. Not anymore.

Once again, a man leaves her to fix her life and this time, she decided that her life simply wasn't worth fixing.

She only hoped that somewhere, somehow, Stella was suffering for what she chose to ignore.

Fin.

I rushed it. Can you tell?


End file.
